Bringing Home The Bacon
by Thanfiction
Summary: Maybe certain things aren't as difficult as Dean thought they were.


Some jackass hit a fire hydrant. That's what started it. Cops and emergency vehicles and city repair crews everywhere, a foot of water in the intersection, entrance to Jiffy Burger completely blocked. And that was 36 and 281, which meant getting to Pinky's or Barn or even fucking Dairy Queen would be a stupidly major pain in the ass. But Gene's Heartland grocery store was right there and they had a full kitchen back in the batcave and hadn't he cooked for Lisa and Ben often enough, so this didn't have to be a crisis, right?

At first he was planning one one of his go-tos and kind of sulking about it, if he was honest, because yeah they were easy, but eggs and Bisquick pancakes or tuna casserole were not exactly a burger, and he'd been wanting a burger. Big, juicy, a goddamned inch thick with bacon so crisp it scratched the roof of your mouth. And right there on the front page of the circular scrunched damp on the bottom of the first cart he grabbed was the sale: USDA Choice Ground Chuck, buy one get one free.

It was like a challenge, somehow, in the same stupid primal part of his brain that had once eaten a raw habanero pepper because his eight year old little brother had triple dog dared him. He'd grilled before, also back at Lisa and Ben's, but it had never been the same and that meant there was more to it than making the beef into blobs and putting it on the grill and trying not to get so wasted that you'd say anything incriminating to the neighbors prattling at you about their 401K and Bill O'Reilly and how Mexicans, gays, and single mothers are the biggest threat to the American way of life because when was the last time you ganked a Horseman since I personally found that motherfucker a little more threatening than the dude who cuts your lawn or your hair or some poor scared knocked-up sixteen year old…y'know, just saying.

So he pulled out his phone and googled "Bobby Flay perfect burger recipe" because he'd been taken to Bobby's Burger Palace a few years ago by a grateful woman after a Poltergeist in Jersey, and that had been a goddamned religious experience of the kind that DIDN'T involve actual angels or demons for once. The result was from the Food Network site and actually called it Perfect Burger Recipe, and he took that as a sign.

Two pounds 80/20 ground chuck (it WAS buy one get one free), canola oil like the recipe said, then thick sliced sharp cheddar cheese, big soft kaiser rolls from the bakery, lettuce, tomatoes, onion, ketchup, mustard, mayo, bag of salad and bottle of ranch for Sammy. The Dally's bacon was on sale, but screw it. This was already looking to be over $20 and he was grinning like an idiot so let's DO the thick cut applewood pepper Farmland shit for another $5.99. If you're gonna do it, do it right, and fuck it, thanks to Charlie these credit cards were coming out of some Wall Street 1%er's offshore tax shelter slush anyway. Case of beer, some eggs and bread and a jar of peanut butter and a freezer lasagna if it all went to hell and he was back in Baby with four bags of what am I even thinking riding shotgun.

He didn't tell Sam. If this died a terrible death, it would do so quietly and buried in stealth down the garbage disposal. And if it didn't suck, he might actually be able to pull off the cool kind of surprise for once, and it was still just a little bit awesome after all these years when he could get his brother to look at him like when they were growing up and Dean could win at life just by virtue of knowing how to tie his shoes.

It wasn't silly that he actually weighed the meat and measured the patty with a ruler. He'd learn to eyeball it later. For now, the glowing screen of his phone with Bobby's burgerly wisdom was his Yoda, and question not the young padawan would…even if he felt ridiculous denting the middle of the burger with his thumb. The stove was enormous, fifteen gas burners that had to be lit with long, old-fashioned wooden kitchen matches, but it made him feel like more of a real chef somehow, especially with the heavy cast-iron griddle and the white chef's jacket he'd found while hunting for said griddle. Maybe THAT was a little silly, considering that it wouldn't exactly button, but sometimes it was easy for Dean to forget when one hung around with a landmass that he was pretty good-sized himself, and it was kinda kitchen cowboy to wear it open, right? Flay probably never buttoned his.

It was slightly questionable what it meant by the oil "shimmering", but he remembered how Lisa had taught him to test for pancakes, and when the water droplets did the skipping thing, he put the burgers on. Three minutes, timed to the second for the first side. He thought for sure they'd stick - the things he'd grilled before always stuck - but they came right up when he flipped them. Take the buttered buns and the onion slices and put them face down on the side of the griddle to toast and grill a little. Two minutes. Another minute, then the slice of cheese, put the lid on it, one more minute, and supposedly, these would be medium rare please God, because the only thing better than a perfect burger was when you found a perfect burger somewhere that they didn't believe cows had to be salted and burned to ash.

He was grinning as he killed the flame and slid the pan to the edge of the stove where the plates and the buns were waiting, and then laughing as he saw the bags still sitting there with the rest of his haul.

Oh, fuck. The bacon. He'd completely forgotten the fucking bacon.

But that was ok. Better even, maybe, because now maybe the burgers would be awesome because it wouldn't be too good to be true. So many things were already so close to that right now, maybe it was messed up, but when had he ever claimed not to be the fucking poster boy for messed up? And if you forgot the bacon and your own room still had goddamned steam heat for winter which would mean putting up with a radiator that made possessed noises and Baby was BABY but still cornered like a pregnant narwhale and sucked gas and having Sam and Charlie meant maybe losing Benny, and Cas…well, that winged motherfucker was his own pile of let's just change that subject like NOW.

Because they still came together like the cover of a fucking magazine with the lettuce kind of curly and green around the edges and the ketchup and mustard and mayo in spirals on the top bun and the cheese drooping the corners over the edges of the patty that was glistening and steaming and he felt like fucking Picasso or Emeril or some shit when he put that top bun on and stood back.

He'd done it. And maybe he could do it. Burgers, food, a home…life, even. With or without the bacon.


End file.
